


From Dreams to Promises

by TheEarlyKat



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, M/M, No Anders without Justice, slight gore mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 13:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5207360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEarlyKat/pseuds/TheEarlyKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders knew he’d lived too long when he drank the darkspawn blood, a thick and choking promise of an inevitable future, when he rose from the crate in front of the Chantry, took Hawke’s hand and was given another promise, of a life on the run in favor of one more death, one more act of vengeance. There was one more promise left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Dreams to Promises

He didn’t think much of it at first. It was a wordless tune Anders caught himself humming when washing dishes after a dinner Hawke wouldn’t let him near until it was ready to serve, the both of them afraid he’d ruin it, gone when a hand on his shoulder turned his focus away for the moment. It was a swing of his hips to an unconscious beat while he searched for elfroot or embrium, broken when he crouched to inspect for healthy leaves and snap off promising stems. 

It was something he must have picked up in the last tavern they’d passed or a memory from happier times in Kirkwall, but Hawke would chuckle all the same at Anders’ flushed cheeks when it was pointed out, a kiss planted on each point of color and a promise to find a much better song to have stuck in his head. The wicked grin on Hawke’s face was more than enough to drive the insistent song out of his thoughts. 

It followed him in his dreams. The darkspawn were never far from the late night images of Templars kicking down the rickety door to the small shack they hid in. There’s was always a cacophony of scrabbling claws and clanking armor, of harsh, guttural snarls and the pounding of blood. Their constant digging, through the earth, though the shack, through Hawke’s chest, was always loud – louder than the worried shouts of his name his lover called out to bring him back to wakefulness – until the first chords of the music made it past, added another song to the hivemind, at first an accompaniment to the beat of hands against stone to a drum stronger than the beating of Hawke’s heart in his ear when he pressed himself up against the man’s chest to muffle his sobs.

Justice was restless under his skin these nights. There was no more room in their shared mind for another presence. Blue flickered once, static and magic chased by warm fingertips, and the song was gone. 

Anders almost missed it, when Justice silenced it with static and unheard rumblings. In the quiet of sleepless nights, when neither dreams nor nightmares greeted him, the soft melody was not there to keep him company and as uneasy as it felt, it was preferable to Hawke’s snores. Mundane tasks passed slowly without it in the back of his mind. The world had a song of its own, birdsong, the rustle of leaves, creaks of trading caravans, and the howl of wolves, but none came close, and no amount of humming brought its kind back to his thoughts. 

It was just a song until his hair turned gray. Hawke teased him about his ceaseless worrying from earlier days while winding the strands between his fingers to press a kiss to his temple. When he let go, strands stayed locked around his knuckles. Anders kept it down more often than not, then, with each brushstroke pulling out more hair and each hair tie claiming more with every night when he took the ponytail down. It was just a song when his skin turned dry and jaundice, and he yanked his hands away from Hawke’s outstretched palms. Long sleeves adorned his arms even on the hottest of days. It was the travel or the heat or their lack of available meat, whenever Hawke inquired about the sharpness to his hips and the relief of his ribs, and lying was unjust but the spirit was busy keeping the song at bay to make much of a fuss. It was just a song until his blood boiled more from just Hawke’s touch and his skin itched from more than summer insects. 

__________________________________________

His endurance could not run on forever. Justice burned the corruption in his veins as much as Hawke eased the pain in his soul. The memories from Kirkwall made their way through the barrier Hawke had thrown up, as strong and thick as the arms that wrapped around him, as steady as the voice that brought him back from glassy-eyed stares out the window, thoughts turned to more than just the life they left behind. Justice chased the disease from his blood with as much persistence as he chased after their cause, the same heat and electricity that had once gotten him through long nights of saving others now turned to saving himself, but they grew thinner, the strong arms around them tugging tighter, and they grew fragile, flesh peeling at the slightest brush of comforting hands – and the song slipped past. 

Anders couldn’t tell Hawke. After the years of dancing around each other, after the years of finding a place safe from Templars, from prying eyes, from the guilt, a place to settle down after forcing Hawke to leave everything he had, he couldn’t say he was losing it all once more. Anders never knew if it was the pain in swelling joints, in twisting limbs, in decaying organs, that hurt more than knowing Hawke believed Kirkwall was happening all over again, was flashing behind his eyes, was bringing him to another edge when he couldn’t leave the bed in fear of reveling his spreading corruption. There was neither fire nor revenge in his mind when Hawke let him take his time, face pressed into the pillow and regretful tears stinging his eyes – only darkness and the chittering of countless twisted faces, singing the same song. 

__________________________________________ 

Justice could no longer hold it back. His promise was broken but there was no anger in the knowledge that the spirit could no longer protect him. Anders knew he’d lived too long when he drank the darkspawn blood, a thick and choking promise of an inevitable future, when he rose from the crate in front of the Chantry, took Hawke’s hand and was given another promise, of a life on the run in favor of one more death, one more act of vengeance. There was one more promise left. 

It was a promise when the tips of his fingers turned black and the nails fell off; when his nightmares elicited whimpers rather than screams, afraid to lose the melody rather than the monsters in the dark. It was a promise when it filled his waking hours as well as his dreams, and more than once Hawke had to call to him to grab his attention. There was no reason to hum when it was loud enough to make Anders wonder why Hawke couldn’t hear it. 

It was a promise when Hawke was called for the Inquisition. Anders smiled from his seat at the kitchen, legs too thin to bring him to the doorstep to wish his love goodbye. He let Hawke wipe the tears trailing down his cheeks with his thumb and couldn’t help the strangled noise he made when Hawke let go. Flesh went with him and there was no hiding it then, but the Inquisition was there, waiting, not as musical but just as persistent, and there was no time left for the either of them. 

__________________________________________ 

In the Western Approach, on the edge the both of them feared coming to, Anders watched the rift tear open across a fortress in the distance. Hawke walked the Fade, and Anders let the Abyssal Rift color him grey, the both of them at their calling.


End file.
